Page 118 of Stolen By the Billionaire
Lower working-class accommodations in Moscow were not as glamorous as the Ritz-Carlton hotel.
The gold-liveried bellhop showed Blaze how to wave his phone in front of the elevator’s button panel so the elevator would stop at their floor.
Very secure.
Nice.
Sarah’s parents had gone on and on about the nighttime dangers of cities like Chicago and Cleveland, but maybe they were wrong about those, too.
Every thought that entered Sarah’s mind now had an inverse function trailing behind it.
Her parents must have been wrong about Logan.
Maybe they’d been wrong about the dangers of cities.
Maybe they’d been wrong about her never leaving the farm.
Maybe they’d been wrong to keep her on the farm when she’d wanted to go to college to be a psychologist.
Maybe she should listen to rock and roll or something besides church music and Russian folk songs.
Maybe they’d been wrong about eating meat with every meal, and Sarah should be a vegetarian.
Maybe they’d been wrong about how Wrangler jeans fit the best, and she should try on Levis or some other kind of denim. Not that Wranglers weren’t good, but maybe some other pants would fit her better.
Lots of other things might fit her better.
Maybe it wasn’t a horrible sin to read the fun romance fiction serial stories on the internet, like when they’d caught her that one time and freaked out and stormed off and refused to talk to her until she repented and promised not to read them anymore.
That promise had lasted for a month after they’d both passed, but she’d felt bad every night after she’d read them.
Maybe—Sarah glanced over at Blaze Robinson, a burly god of a man who handed the bellhop a few bills that made him smile—perhaps her parents had been wrong about how she had to “save herself” for marriage because that was what God wanted her to do.
Maybe they didn’t always know what God wanted.
That was kind of presumptuous of them, wasn’t it?
Maybe they shouldn’t have been so adamant about what good girls did, and maybe Sarah shouldn’t be one anymore.
Maybe Blaze was right, and she shouldn’t strive so hard to be good all the time, about everything, about every darn little thing forever.
Blaze shut the door behind the bellhop and spun the deadbolt. “A proper supper will be up soon with chocolate mousse for dessert. You earned it.”
The sharpness in his icy blue eyes looked like hunger when he looked at her.
A nervous energy sizzled in her stomach like the moments when supper was on the table and she was weak and famished and hot from working out in the fields all day and needed the good cooking on the table, but her father was praying devoutly in Russian, and he continued warbling on and on, segueing from one old traditional prayer to the next, his eyes cramped shut in his exertion, while her body gnawed itself because she needed to eat.
Maybe she’d been so deprived all her life—of security, of pleasure, of love, of freakin’ supper—that she was starving and needed at least a taste of anything to keep her going.
Maybe, if she believed in a God who sent messengers, maybe Blaze had been sent into her life, not to abduct her but to save her.
Blaze tilted his head to the side, and the overhead lights from the living room's high ceiling illuminated his strong cheekbones and jawline. “What are you thinking, kitten?”
“That I—” So many theories and unmade decisions screamed in her head. “That I would like a shower.”
He nodded. “The bathroom should be through the bedroom.”
“I can get my bag,” she said, walking past him to where his duffel bags lay on the thick carpeting, one filled with the clothes he’d found for her that were oversized but good enough for now.
